


whole once more

by chaosy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, companion dogs, grandpas in love, literally just fluff and a bit of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:16:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7684201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosy/pseuds/chaosy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It was a good idea, to get a dog,” Steve mumbles into his neck. They're in bed, and it's nine-thirty, because they're old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whole once more

**Author's Note:**

> here is a mess of a dog fic because dearest [maybetomorrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ihavetoomuchfreetime/pseuds/maybetomorrow) has been wonderful to talk to this past week and dog chats have happened  
> disclaimer: the author knows jack shit about dogs. the only pet I've ever had was a fish. his name was barnacles

There honestly isn't much of a discussion to it. One morning Steve says _we should get a dog or something_ and Bucky says _that'd be nice_ and then about a week later, they have a dog.

His name is Milo.

Milo isn't just any dog – he's a companion dog, specifically trained to assist trauma survivors. Sam knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who ran a service for veterans.

“Not sure I qualify as a veteran,” Bucky says to Steve, as they walk Milo out of the shelter. He's very calm, occasionally brushing up against Bucky's leg. He doesn't pull at his lead or try and piss on anything, he doesn't growl or bark at other dogs on the street.

“Of course you do,” Steve says. He takes Bucky's free hand and squeezes. Bucky relaxes slightly.

The walk back to their apartment is short, and – kind of nice, actually. Milo looks around interestedly at their street and wanders around the apartment when they let him off the leash, sniffing at the bookshelves and the couch and the TV.

Steve squats in front of him and pets his head. “Uh. Sit?” he says, and Milo sits. Steve looks like he's just heard his baby's first words.

“He _sat down_ ,” he says, awestruck. Bucky, who's too warmed by the delight on his face to tease him, nods.

“That's what they do, Stevie,” he tells him. “Lay down,” he says to Milo, who does, and Steve looks hilariously thrilled.

They find out that Milo knows the basics, from _stay_ to _bed_ to _go shit in the street_ (“Bucky,” Steve says, exasperated) over the course of an evening. They finish dinner and take him outside for a little bit before Steve suggests a movie.

Bucky went to an art gallery last week. Picasso has nothing on the sight of Steve Rogers, sleepy and content, hugging a dog against his chest as he watches _Friends_ reruns.

Milo – partly because of his training, partly because Steve and Bucky are just really in love with him – fits in well in their weird little family. Natasha comes over after a long day and refuses to talk to anyone, just sits and plays with him. Sam and Steve take him on runs. And Bucky -

Well. Bucky _adores_ him.

The notion of being resposible for another being spooked him at first, because he barely cares for himself. He eats and sleeps but sometimes he forgets to do either, and Steve nudges him into the shower every so often after a bad few days. But having to get up and take Milo for a walk, or leave his room to feed him, or buy new food or take him for a checkup just _helps_. And as a weird thank-you (why the hell is he thanking his dog, Jesus) Bucky just buys him hipster-brand treats and fancy collars, gets him toys that are meant to stimulate mental development or something.

He voluntarily stays in a park for three hours, playing fetch. With his dog. That he now co-owns with his sort-of boyfriend in a nice neighbourhood in Manhattan. In the twenty first century.

 _Jesus_.

He's so terrified of hurting Milo when he's out of it or coming up from a nightmare. He broke Steve's wrist once, what the hell could he do to a fragile dalmatian?

As it turns out, it's okay.

Steve is out, having drinks and dancing with Natasha that Bucky begged out of. He wakes up gasping and shaking and lashing out, barely aware of himself.

Milo is just – licking his face.

It's such an odd sensation, soft and wet and unfamiliar, that Bucky just sort of stops for a minute. None of his dreams involve a warm ball of fur on his chest – dogs, in general, do not feature.

The feeling is so supremely _different_ from any cold metal against his skin or uncomfortable uniform or gun in his hand that it pulls him out of the dream completely. He's awake, he's alive, he has a _dog_.

He always liked dogs. The few that the GIs had on the front, happy to share scraps of food, the quiet ones in Hydra bases that blinked at him wetly when he passed by. Sometimes targets had guard dogs, Bucky remembers killing them quietly -

 _Stop it_ , he thinks. Milo is still licking his face.

“Okay,” he says, nudging him gently. “Okay, you dumb animal, I'm awake, I'm good.”

There's no way he's getting back to sleep. He washes the dog spit off his face and leans against the bathroom wall for a little while. Milo whines outside the door, scratches at it.

“You're getting too clingy,” Bucky says as he opens the door. He picks him up – Milo is no small dog, but Bucky is no small guy – and heads into the kitchen.

He makes tea made from acai berries and rose, supposed to promote calm and align one's chakras or whatever. It's bull, but it smells nice. Milo scuffs around his legs unhelpfully and Bucky rubs his back with his foot as he flips the kettle on.

 _Friends_ is on. Bucky is pretty sure the world could end, their bones turned to dust, and _Friends_ would still be on.

He navigates couch and blankets and _dog_ and keeps his tea steady in his metal hand, using his flesh one to pet Milo's head once their settled. Milo immediately goes for the spot on his chest that's usually Steve's. Bucky feels something inside of him expand and settle.

“Hey,” he mumbles. Milo blinks at him. “Thanks for waking me up, buddy.”

Dogs don't speak English. Milo licks his jaw.

They fall asleep with _Friends_ playing quietly on the TV. Bucky is wrapped up in blankets and has his dog in his arms and doesn't dream about steel.

The thing that wakes him up is lips on his forehead, a warm hand on the back of his neck. _Steve_. Who looks alarmingly put-together even at four in the morning after a night out with Natasha.

“You're back,” Bucky says dumbly, eyes still half closed. Steve nods and presses his nose against his temple.

“Yeah. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. You wanna go to bed?”

Bucky looks down at Milo, still fast asleep on his chest. Occasionally his tail flicks as he dreams. He looks back at Steve.

“I'll get another blanket,” Steve says.

//

So the dog is a hit, basically. Even Natasha likes him. Milo takes one look at her cat, Sprinkles, and within two minutes they're cuddling.

(“Sprinkles,” Bucky says to Nat, as they sit at the counter. Natasha just glowers and mutters something along the lines of _Clint_ and Bucky just starts laughing.)

Steve will sit with Milo in a patch of sunlight in the apartment after a walk, will pet him with one hand and sketch with the other. He perfects the shape of his paws and the lines of his tail and legs, doodles quick, rough drawings of Bucky's metal hand petting the top of his head.

When Bucky feels on edge or hazy in public, Milo presses against his legs, his solid warmth reminding him where he is, what's real. He guides him to somewhere quiet if he needs. He wakes him up from bad dreams.

“It was a good idea, to get a dog,” Steve mumbles into his neck. They're in bed, and it's nine-thirty, because they're old.

Bucky hums. He turns around so he can wrap himself around Steve a little bit tighter. Steve's fingers stroke over his back. “He's a good dog,” he says, sleepy. “S'nice having someone else around other than your ugly mug.”

“You're not leaving me for the dog,” Steve replies. Bucky laughs and wonders how he got this lucky.

Steve drifts off pressed against him. It's dark out but he can still see the shape of his cheekbones, the way his hair falls over his forehead. It _is_ nice having someone else around, but only because Steve is right there with him, helping him care for this weird creature that also kind of cares for them too.

“Could get a cat,” Bucky suggests, into the quiet.

 


End file.
